Chapter 55 - A Long, Cold Night

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A Short Tale of Messages, a Young Guard, Echoes of Battlefields, a Brother Lost, Betrayal, a Brother Half-Convinced, Harsh Words, and Forgiveness

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In the Troll Market, four pairs of bleary eyes snapped awake at the insistent pounding on four different front doors.

In her white canvas tent-shop, Aso the Weaver growled like a rabid hyena at the messenger, but accepted the missive with grumbled thanks before yanking the tent flaps closed again.

At the house attached to his forge, Erik Ashkeson was polite to the letter-bearer. His wife offered the young messenger a bite to eat and something to drink while her husband and her son Jarl studied the hastily-penned warning with shadowed garnet eyes and somber faces.

Laigdech's blood ran cold at the thought that anyone would move against the king's son in such a way, and resolved to go about armed for the foreseeable future.

Yang simply snapped her fingers to summon several low-level spook-fires to guard her little house on the outskirts of the Market and sent the fourth young messenger away with a bag of honeyed rice-balls for his trouble.

And in Findias, in a lavishly decorated bedchamber situated near Princess Nuala's own suite, Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora studied the simple message from the crown prince with cat-slitted silver eyes and a smile curving her pale lips.

How funny, she thought, that the Silver Lance should be concerned for her safety, of all people's. And how sweet that he still referred to her as "Naya." Apparently the prince had not forgotten just what she had been to him, once upon a time. Maybe she could use that to her advantage when he returned with his... mortal.

Reclining back against the velvet pillows on her bed, the Elven noblewoman couldn't help but laugh that Nuada would send her this message, out of all the people who were put at possible risk by his regard. He had always underestimated her. Well, he would soon see, wouldn't he?

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She was grateful - more than grateful - that all four children had fallen asleep in a big pile on the floor and that Lena also slept again when one of Roiben's green-clad healers stepped out of the ensorcelled chamber and approached Dylan. The mortal's face must have registered her foremost concern, because the healer smiled faintly and held up a hand.

"The youth still lives," he said, running a hand smeared with drying traces of amber blood through the porcupine quills that served him for hair. "He is strong, and stubborn," the faerie added, echoing Nuada's earlier words. "He is not out of danger yet, though. The damage done by the dullahans' whips was extensive; the fractured skull certainly did not help, either. If he survives till dawn, his chances will increase exponentially. He is, however, awake, and asking for you."
Her heart smashed hard against her sternum as she cast a swift look at the sleeping children, then at Val. "Keep an eye on them?" The younger mortal nodded, and Dylan limped into the healing chamber.

Tsu's'di lay on the bed, covered decently by a sheet, his face tight with pain. Lashes from a whip had cut open his lip, right eyebrow, right cheek, and ripped open several lacerations along his right arm. They were closing slowly. His left arm was splinted and strapped to keep it immobilized long enough for the healing magic to settle into the bones. The healers had strapped his broken ribs, as well. Something long and stiff and wrapped 'round in white bandages was more than likely the boy's tail. What alarmed Dylan the most was the sickly gray cast to the ewah youth's skin underneath the tawny pelt of cougar fur that covered his body. He was sweating hard.

"Oh, Tsu's'di," she murmured, and went to his side. The youth swallowed hard and smoky turquoise eyes found hers. He made a brave attempt at a smile, but found out quickly enough that shifting expression would make his face hurt.
"Hello, A'ge'lv," the boy said. The fingers of his right hand flexed, tightening into a fist before relaxing again. Without conscious thought, Dylan reached out and smoothed back some of the sweat-dampened wisps of long fur clinging to his forehead. The youth didn't protest the mortal's attempt at mothering. Only asked, "A'du and 'Sa'ti, are they-"

"They're fine," she hastened to assure him. Felt him relax almost completely, the tension draining out of him like water. Dylan added, "They are just fine. They're out there, asleep. The healers saw to them, too. By tomorrow afternoon they'll be right as rain, all right? Don't worry about them. How are you? Have they given you anything for the pain?"

He shook his head slowly. "Too dangerous to give me poppy juice, they said. My skull's broken, apparently. Would explain the hammers smashing around in my head. Have to wake me up every so often, make sure I'm not dead. Apparently they've never heard of that stuff you use - willow bark tea or whatever. Lena," he said suddenly, and there was an odd note in his voice. He tensed again. "They tried to hurt her, too. She was so scared. Is she all right? I tried to protect her, but-"

"Lena's fine, too," Dylan said, and the youth relaxed perceptibly. "She's been worried sick about you all night. What happened with you two, anyway?"
Despite the pain from his broken bones, despite the fact that it hurt to do so, Tsu's'di grinned. "Got to go on that date," he said. "Saw some movie. The Secret World of some girl or other. Anime, she said it was called. I liked it. Never been on a date, before," he added. "She just... made me feel... different. Looser, I guess. I had fun. Haven't had any fun by myself in a while. She gave me this maple-sugar candy at the movie. Then we walked in the Park for a bit before the sun went down. It was great."

Now Dylan was the one to grin. "Doesn't hurt that she's pretty, does it?"
Tsu's'di's grin widened, then he winced. "Ow. That hurt. Yeah, she's really pretty." His expression softened. "And she's nice, under all that swagger. And she likes A'du and 'Sa'ti. She played with them while I helped Lady Peri with chores. It was nice. Not a lot of fae girls like kids."

"So I've noticed," his mistress muttered, thinking of Kaye's biological mother, who'd dumped her off in a human dwelling without a thought to her offspring. Peri, as far as Dylan knew, was the only changeling-bearing faerie who'd fought to keep her child. "Tsu's'di, I'm going to talk to the healers about giving you a willow- or cherry-bark tisane to help with your pain, because you need to get at least some real sleep, but before I go is there anything you want to ask me? Or tell me?"

The boy was silent for a very long time before he finally asked in a mere whisper, "Is the prince angry with me?" At her incredulous look, he added, "For getting hurt. I know you have to go back to Findias tomorrow and I'm supposed to guard you and now I might not be able to. I'm sorry. Is he angry?"

Dylan shook her head. Though surprised the cougar shifter would think Nuada could be mad at him over something so ridiculous, she was secretly pleased that Tsu's'di hadn't assumed she was angry. "No. No, of course not. He was simply worried. So was I. We're still worried; you're not quite out of the woods yet. He would be here right now, but we received news and he needed to see things for himself." As quickly as possible, she related everything that had happened - the dipsa attack in the forest, the noc attack, John being ambushed by shandymen, and the rumored assault on Wink.

To the human's surprise, Tsu's'di sat quietly and thought about all of this for a long moment before speaking. "My father... I barely remember him. He died a few decades ago, a few months before 'Sa'ti was born. But I was never scared of him. I never thought he'd hurt me or A'du. Fathers aren't supposed to do that. Do you really think this King Balor is trying to hurt His Highness? Doesn't he love him?"

Suddenly chilled, Dylan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I don't know if Balor's the one we have to worry about or not. I just don't know. I think... I think he loves his son, but I don't think he considers Prince Nuada to actually be his son anymore. I don't know, though. I don't know what's going on in Balor's head. All I know is that he's capable of hurting or even killing His Highness if pressed." If this had been any other youngster - 'Sa'ti or A'du'la'di, or anyone else - she wouldn't have been so candid. But Tsu's'di's response told her she was right to treat him as an adult.

"Then we'll have to be extra on guard," the cougar youth muttered. "If we have to worry about the prince's other enemies on top of worrying about the king of the castle we're gonna be stuck in. Anyone could be an enemy. A'ge'lv... I don't think I can protect you by myself. I think I'm gonna need some help."

"I'll speak to His Highness. I'm sure we've got other allies. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Because she couldn't help herself, Dylan smoothed back Tsu's'di's sweat-dampened hair again. The youth's mouth quirked up a little. "In the meantime, rest. Focus on healing."

"Yes, milady-mother," Tsu's'di replied. Dylan laughed and withdrew from the healing room.

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The place was a shambles.

When it was deemed safe to hold Midnight Fest, glamor and warding spells were set in place by the strongest local fey of the Merchants' Guild to keep out any who did not belong to the Hidden Realms. That made it possible, if the Other Kin so desired, to hold the nocturnal festivities right out on the mortal streets. But usually the Guild hosted it in parks, abandoned parking garages, and other such out-of-the-way places where mundane human interference was least likely.

The East Village was a neighborhood of New York mostly populated by fae, less magical Other Kin like vampires, and Sight-blessed humans. It boasted enchanted establishments such as the pixie-owned Persephone's, the demon-run Pandemonium Club, and Lorelei's tavern, Fafner's Cave. This little place was normally flooded with people, even in the darkest parts of the night.

Now it all lay in ruins; little impromptu stages splintered and smoldering, market stalls and merchant carts in pieces no bigger than a forearm, canvas tents slashed to ribbons. And then there were the injured: tiny psychai, rainbow butterfly wings shredded or singed or crumpled; several wakį́yą with bandaged limbs; a taltos with a broken arm in a sling to her chest; a sallow Bethmooran goblin being stitched up by another, less damaged goblin. After that, there were the dead. Bone-boys, a pack of young ghouls, dullahan, night-jars and the smaller nightgaunts, dactyls, tree spirits. Mostly the more diminutive fae, save a few. The corpse of a troll sent ice cold fear shrieking through Nuada's blood until he realized the troll male was older and smaller than Wink.

Nuada stared around at the decimation for a moment in complete and utter shock. The damage was not so bad. Not compared to what he'd seen in countless wars. But it was still hideous, and he realized, suddenly and with an odd coldness in his chest, that he had grown a bit soft in the later years of his self-imposed exile. Because although he remembered the atrocities committed by the humans against the fae - oh, how he remembered them - he had not truly remembered what it was like to walk into a place that should have been peaceful and joyous only to see it invaded, violated.

But now he remembered, and it fired something inside him that his time with Dylan had slowly been lulling into sleep. Anger. Black fury. Hatred. And something else, something hard and cold and biting. Resignation. This was what the fae had been reduced to? Fighting amongst themselves? Killing each other? He knew no humans had done this. The desolation would have been far worse. But he also knew why it had happened.

Someone wanted to break him to pieces. Rip out his heart and grind it into the dust beneath their feet. And to do it they would murder the woman he loved, slaughter helpless children, attack a mortal who had no real connection to him at all, and steal from him the one on whom he had nearly always relied. Because, he knew - though he wasn't certain how it was that he knew - he had made the greatest mistake he had ever made in his life.

Dylan. This had happened because he was in love with Dylan.

So in a way, he thought a little vaguely, as the world seemed to tilt in strange ways around him and various Other Kin attempted to set things to rights, this was the fault of humans. Just one more sin against his people on the heads of that accursed race. One more atrocity to be blamed on the children of Adam. The thought boiled like molten iron in his blood.

And there was one more thing. One vicious, aching grief that threatened to strangle him. Threatened to shatter him into so many pieces he would never be able to put himself back together again.

Lying around them, scattered like carrion, being fed on by ravenous nocs and other flesh-eating fae, were more than two dozen Butcher Guards. More than two dozen. He couldn't tell what had killed them - the damage from the carrion-devouring Pobel Vean was too extensive at this point. Only the empty helms and blood-smeared swords of the Bethmooran royal guards even identified them as such. So Nuada could not be certain if the Butchers had been there to attack Wink, or to help him.

But cold suspicion began to freeze into an icy knot in the very pit of his stomach. How would his father have known to send the Butchers to Midnight Fest to aid the silver cave troll? He couldn't have known. Why would the king have sent them, then? To attack Wink. To capture or to kill him. But capturing the troll would gain the king nothing....

Athair, Nuada thought, desperately, Father, and that savage grief ripped at him. The prince stared in nauseous disbelief at the ruined Butcher corpses. He hadn't believed it, hadn't thought it possible, not really. It hadn't made any sense; still made no sense at all. His father would never hurt children, hurt humans. Attack innocent fae. Would never behave the coward like this. But the dead guards were the proof, were they not?

Nuada thought he might choke on the emotion thickening in his throat. His leather gloves creaked and his fingers ached as they knotted into fists. He bit his lip until he tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood. Gods, Athair, why? Why would you do this? What have I done to make you do this? I have only ever tried to serve my people. So why... why?
 
He wanted Dylan. He wanted her now. How he kept on his feet without her there in that moment of sick realization, he had no idea. Were his legs shaking? Gods, he hoped not. She'd been right. Shades of Annwn, she'd been right. His father had been behind it all. His father had tried to destroy him.

How could you do this, Father?

It was the vampire boy that found where the fight had begun. He had a keen nose for blood, of course. When he caught the scent of deep earthen places and limestone and caverns, of molten rock and hoarfrost, mixed with just the faintest hint of leather and metals, the youth quickly sniffed out the freshest spatter of slate-gray troll blood on the pavement, and followed it back through the East Village. The trail went less than a block. Along it, the vampire smelled the freshness of deep water and the soft metallic perfume of gold, and found traces of drying amber blood. Nuada knew it belonged to Lorelei.

This understanding barely registered against a sudden strange fog that swallowed nearly all of the Elven warrior's thoughts and left him hollow. He hardly reacted when the vampire pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number. He waited in silence for a moment. From within the walls of Fafner's Cave, Nuada thought he heard a phone ringing. After several moments the ringing died. Simon's fangs flashed, needle-thin slivers of bone-white in the moonlight, as he grimaced and shoved his phone back in the pocket of his cargo pants.

"No answer from Lorelei's place," he muttered, staring at the glamored tavern-front with shadowed eyes. "She always answers, even if it's the middle of the night. In case it's an emergency. I'm a message-runner for the Clave," the vampire added at Ellebere's raised brows. "I've had to make deliveries here before. Fafner's Cave is like a neutral zone so a lot of Other Kin do business there. She always has her phone on her. Always answers it." He glanced down at the smears of golden blood. "This is bad."

The words sent a jolt through the Elf prince. Bad? He almost wanted to laugh, but thought he might choke on it. Humans and their penchant for understatement. "Bad" was so insignificant compared to all the words running through the Elf's mind at that moment along with the slashing dread and the cold knotting in his guts. It was pathetic, Nuada tried to snarl at himself, to fall apart this way. Was he a warrior or a sheltered child? Was he the legendary Silverlance or not?

But there was so much blood. He could smell it. Almost taste it clotting on the back of his tongue. Splashes drying to tacky gray on the ground. Smears on some of the brick and concrete walls of the stores and drinking establishments. How had Wink survived such wounds long enough to escape?

He hadn't. There was simply no way that Nuada could see. The silver cave troll had not simply walked away from this fight. Not with this much blood loss and that many enemies all focused on killing him. But... but it simply couldn't be....

Nuada looked around, chilled to his bones. Anger had been subsumed by a strange sort of fear that threatened to smother him like a blanket of tar. Wink should have been here. Should have been lying wounded where Nuada could find him. Or one of the fae that Ellebere, Roiben's wine-haired knight, spoke to should have known where the troll was. Should have seen something. But there was no trace, no sign. Even when Nuada cast out with his senses, he could not catch even a flicker of Wink or Lorelei, and Lorelei's rooms above Fafner's Cave were less than two dozen yards away. There was only the aftertaste of death. There was only the all too familiar reek of blood. So much blood.

And his father... his father was responsible. His father had tried to slay the troll warrior that had saved Balor's children and avenged Balor's wife when the king had merely drowned himself in the grief that was shared by his son and daughter. His father, his oh so honorable father, who called Nuada monster and betrayer and coward and rapist and murderer, had attempted to butcher innocent children. Risked war with two other courts to do so. Tried to kill Dylan. Had murdered....

Wink's face swam behind Nuada's eyelids as he squeezed them shut against the cruel pricking that meant nothing but shame for him right then. He didn't know that his father was behind all of this. Did not know that his vassal was dead. Not for certain.

But if not, if he dared to hope not, then where in hellfire was Wink? Where could he have possibly gone so terribly wounded? Not the healing sanctuary, or any of the lairs throughout the subway tunnels. He would not have been able to make it so far alone, and the lairs were warded. Nuada would have felt it the moment Wink crossed the threshold. So where could the troll be? Where, stars curse it?

A dark thought sent revulsion and horror roiling in his belly and bile rising into his throat. Had the nocs already picked Wink's bones clean? Was that why he couldn't find the troll? He knuckled his eyes to press down the sudden pain sparking there.

Gods, but he was tired. Everything that had happened, everything that it meant or could possibly mean, weighed down on him like iron shackles. His eyes burned. The night air threatened to freeze him to the marrow. His skull felt thick with cobwebs. He could not think clearly when he was this tired. Not at his age. Maybe if he'd been a handful of centuries younger....

Then Meliorn, the other Elf knight of Roiben's courts, found the Royal Seal.
It lay like a tiny silvery moon on the blackness of the asphalt. Street lamps and faerie lights lit up the etched crest of the Eildon Tree. The symbol of Bethmoora in peacetime. A spatter of gray blood marred the Seal. It gleamed dully in the dim glow of the City lights.

Nuada knelt, though it felt almost as if he were falling. His bones rattled when his knee impacted the ground. With trembling hands he lifted the Seal that Wink had worn against the leather of his thick troll armor. Turned it over to see that the rawhide ties that usually held the Seal in place had been raggedly cut. An enemy had cut or ripped it away, most likely. His loyal vassal would have never left the mark of his service behind willingly. Nuada drew a shuddering breath and turned the silver device over again to stare at the royal hawthorne tree etched across its surface.

Wink is dead, then, Nuada thought numbly. His mind tried to rebel at the thought. His stomach twisted viciously and his heart knifed sideways in his chest. Yet the prince could not fight the sudden despair that seemed to cling to him like a black sticky web. One father, the father of his heart, more than likely dead at the hands of the father of his blood. It made no sense and yet.... A sudden shard of agony knifed him in the back, sliding home to his heart, as the truth crystallized in his mind. Nuada fought to keep from being sick.

Dylan, please, I need you now, he thought, fighting not to shake apart as shame and grief and blistering regret and the throttling pain of loss threatened to drown him. Oh, gods... gods, my love, I need you. But she could not hear him and he knew it. There was no one to hear the strange, almost childlike cry of denial in the back of his mind. Wink. Father, brother, truest friend.

The Elven warrior rose stiffly to his feet and stared down at the disc of etched silver as if he had never seen it before. He thought of the Elf who had done this, the one who was responsible. He thought of the troll who had been a father to him, who had saved his and Nuala's lives more than thirty centuries ago, who had avenged Nuada's mother, who had sat with a heartsick Elven princeling while he wept at the sight of amber blood still staining the ground and then taken him home again. The troll who was his brother in heart and soul, who had kept him sane and strong in exile, who had helped him in all he stood in need of - including wooing an impossible mortal woman after the Elf prince had made a right ass of himself, Nuada thought with a sudden twitch of his lips that was almost a hint of a smile.

Wink.

And Lorelei. Was she dead? There was not enough blood to say so. Yet if not dead, where was she? Hiding? Why had she not contacted him? Especially if Wink were with her? The Rhine daughter's connections throughout the city were legion. If she were all right - if she and Wink were alive - why had she not sent him a message?

Would he have to go to Sunna and tell the woman who was his friend that because of him her daughter was dead? Her daughter, whom Nuada had watched grow from a tiny child barely able to toddle into the beautiful faerie woman who had won Wink's heart.

Where was Lorelei? Could Wink possibly still be alive? Was there a chance that he had misread the signs, that he was wrong, that his father had not done this thing? Was there even the slightest chance? After all, not every member of the fey race that fed into the Butcher Guards became a royal guard. Perhaps this was merely an attempt to make Nuada blame his father in place of the true perpetrator.

But the fallen helms and blades, etched with the royal crest of Bethmoora, were slowly smothering that tiny ember of hope.

"Come, we should go. This place stinks of death," Ellebere muttered, glancing around. "The troll is obviously dead. The woman also, I would imagine. My condolences for the loss of your servant, Prince Nuada," he added belatedly.

Nuada did not even acknowledge the other Elf. He merely tightened his grip on the Seal until the edges bit into his fingers. Drops of blood slipped like liquid gold onto the silver and smeared there, glittering like a tribute. The pain throbbing through his fingers was barely noticeable. He was oddly numb to everything. Then he turned in a daze and began to walk back the way they'd come.

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"Are you going to hit me?" John rasped when he caught sight of his twin hovering in the doorway to the healing chamber or wherever he was. Dylan looked bad, he thought. Pale, she trembled with nerves or cold or fatigue or all three. She moved like her feet hurt. Her hair hung in her face so that one blue eye peeked out through the curtain of limp, frizzy curls. In point of fact, she looked like crap. Obviously the gimlet-eyed brat prince wasn't taking very good care of John's twin. Of course, John knew he didn't exactly look that great, either.

"Why would I hit you?"

"For getting stabbed like an idiot," he said. "For wrecking the Mustang you bought me. For cracking my head open again. How many brain cells do you think I've lost by now, anyway?"

"At this point, John-boy," his sister mumbled, approaching a bit gingerly to sit in the chair beside his bed, "I honestly don't think one more whack on the noggin is going to do you much harm." She reached out and gently slipped her index finger around his pinkie. "Don't worry about lost brain cells or whatever."

John snorted, then winced when his ribs protested. "Your hunk of burning Elf stuff or whatever probably thinks I'm already barely half a step up from being a moron." He flicked his gaze over Dylan's face. Man, she needed some sleep. She wasn't young anymore, which was so strange because even after he'd come back from the stupid Hell Dimension she'd seemed so youthful. Still his twin despite the new discrepency in their ages. When had she gotten older? Or had he just missed it? "You know," John muttered, "I just realized something. How old is that guy?"

"Nuada?" Dylan rubbed one eye with the heel of her palm. Pain was throbbing through her eyes and her chest felt oddly tight. She was so blasted tired. "Um... about forty, forty-one. Why?"

The twenty-one-year-old blinked at his twin for a second. His eye twitched. "Dude. D, that is weird. He's more than a decade older than you. He's a cradle-robbing creep."

Dylan rolled her eyes and found herself smiling a little. Hadn't she said the same thing that night Nuada had saved her from freezing to death. "Oh, shut up. You just woke up from having your entire body stuck back together again, you're not allowed to make comments about my boyfriend's age. And you think that's bad? That's how old he is physically. Chronologically, he's over four-thousand years old."

John's eyes blew wide and he just stared at her for a minute. Then he squeezed his eyes shut. "D, that... that's just... I mean... ew. Just... ew. Sis, I am absolutely begging you to please tell me that you are not sleeping with someone who's older than dirt."

"I'm tempted to pull a Francesca and beg you to tell me you haven't turned into a sex-addicted man-whore, but I actually know better than to ask you that," his sister informed him dryly. Raising her eyebrow, she added, "Worried about my honor, Johnny?"

He glared at her. "No. That lipstick-wearing hobgoblin knows if he ever forces you to do anything, I'll rip his head off and play soccer with it."

"First of all, John, Nuada would never force me into anything, ever. Insinuating that he would is bad enough. Saying so outright... you're lucky you have broken ribs or I'd smack you with a rolled-up newspaper." Dylan watched with a twinge of satisfaction when her twin brother shrank back a little from the spark of anger in her eyes. "Secondly, you owe Nuada for saving your life. He could have refused when I asked him to rescue you, but he didn't.

"And third," she added, trying not to laugh, "he doesn't wear lipstick. His mouth just naturally looks that way. Although that's pretty rich coming from a guy who looks like he's always wearing mascara. And if I recall correctly, you were wearing lipstick in that picture Francesca took of you in the dress."

He grimaced. "Please shut up."

"No, I want to ask you something."

One gray-blue eye locked on her face. "Are you gonna stab me if I give the wrong answer?"

She leaned back and stretched her legs out. "I'm thinking about it, since you're being a twit. Why do you hate Nuada so much, John? You've never been like this with anyone ever. I've never seen you act this way with anybody. Not even bad guys. You insult him, yell at him, provoke him. The things you said to him... I don't understand you, John. For the first time ever I don't understand what's going on with you."

"Yeah, we didn't even have this problem when I went through puberty," he muttered, pretending to be aggrieved. She didn't smile. Sobering, John said, "Okay. Okay, here's the deal. You love the guy, which means he's the luckiest idiot in the world. But he doesn't care. Even though you love him, he-"

"Loves me, too."

John blinked. Blinked again. His head was starting to ache something fierce. "Okay, you'll have to excuse me, because I did crack my skull open tonight. Did you just say he loves you?"

"Yes, I did. Nuada loves me."

He stared at her. Swallowed. "Um...." Oh, crap, she'd gone off the deep end. She'd lost her mind. Or she was just desperate. John blamed that on Francesca. But Dylan could do better than that pasty-faced zombie prince! John had a buddy at Quantico who was looking for a nice girl to settle down with. Dylan was a nice girl.

A nice girl who saw faeries.

Okay, that might not work, John thought, but aloud all he said was, "I really hate to say this, but... no, he doesn't. If he loved you, he wouldn't have called you a whore. I know how sensitive you are about that-"

"But he didn't. He was speaking from anger; he didn't mean it. And he apologized. Profusely. Nuada just made a mistake, John," his sister said, defending the douche bag with her wide eyes and earnest voice. John just wanted to punch the guy in the nose again. This time preferably without getting socked into a wall. That had hurt. And left him with a loose molar.

"Dylan-"

"You've made mistakes too," she reminded him. "It's not fair, the way you treat him. You focus only on the one thing he's done wrong and you ignore everything that he's done right. He saved my life more than once. He kept me sane. He protected me, taught me how to protect myself. Taught me how to be stronger, braver. Helped me face things I never thought I'd ever have the courage to stand up against. He helped me heal - not just my body, but my heart. He has risked so much for me. He nearly died for me more than once. Why can't you keep that in mind when you deal with him?"

Wow. Her twin studied her for a minute, taken aback. She'd never really talked about why she liked Prince Prissy Pants so much. He knew the gist of what the royal ghoul had done for Dylan, but he'd never heard her talk about Nuada like this before. She'd never really explained everything to him. Still, John had a few more points to make. "He tried to break my arm-"

"You told him I hated him," she snapped back. "What if someone that you hated, someone who had reason to know, told you the same thing? How would you feel if you thought for even a second that I could honestly truly hate you, John? For years we've always truly relied solely on each other, so be honest - what would you do?"

"Like the zombie prince gives a flying rat's buttered carcass about... okay, Dylan, stop laughing," he grumbled when his twin covered her mouth with one hand and giggled. He'd forgotten that the "buttered carcass" thing always made her laugh when she was really tired. Darn it, he was being serious. Or trying, anyway. "Dylan, you've got to stop defending him. He's no good. He doesn't care about you."

"You don't get to say that, John." All the giggles were gone now. Nuada's words reverberated through her skull. I cannot stand by and let you be hurt. I cannot do it, Dylan. Do not ask it of me, because I cannot do it! He'd sounded so desperate. Almost frightened. "You didn't see him. You don't know what it's like for him. You have no idea how hard it is for him to... he's had a hard life. A horrible life. He's been betrayed countless times and when we had that fight, he thought I'd betrayed him, too. I explained all this to you."

Okay, yeah, she had. And she'd forgiven the guy and John had been out of line, he knew that, saying all those things to the Elf prince just because he was upset. Dylan and the prince had worked everything out, and it was cool. Supposedly. But the Legolas-wannabe didn't love Dylan. She had to realize that.

Except....

If you die, it will break her heart. I have broken her heart before, though I did not wish to do it. I will make amends to her as long as I must. But if I let you die, you who are her world, she would never forgive me your life. And I would never forgive myself her heartbreak.

There had been scarlet threads of anger woven through those words, and dark hatred. But underneath of that, so faint John might have imagined it, he'd heard regret and envy. Remorse when the Elven warrior had talked of breaking Dylan's heart, and more than a little jealousy when he'd said "you who are her world."

I would never forgive myself her heartbreak. Then why had Nuada hit her with the sharpest, ugliest words he could muster? The ones that would break her down to nothing? Why had he just left her there? And why had it taken him so blasted long to come back?

"Dylan," John said, trying to rally his flagging strength, "the creep abandoned you-"

"So did you," Dylan said softly, shredding him in the time it took to utter three short simple words, and his mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. His eyes stung as he stared up at her in shock. So did you. Cripes, he'd thought they were past that. He hadn't meant to; didn't she know he hadn't meant to? She couldn't think he'd do that on purpose?

Dylan reached out and brushed something from his cheek. When she pulled her fingers back, John saw the tips of them glistened wetly. "Everyone makes mistakes, John-boy. Everyone has hurt someone they love."

"I never wanted to hurt you," he whispered. "D, I swear to you, I-"

"I know," she said gently. "He didn't want to hurt me, either. Not really. You didn't see him when he came back. Please, Johnny, just give him a chance. Please?"

"It won't help if I do; he hates me," her brother mumbled. Remembering the butt of a lance hitting him in the face, a sword blade at his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth when Nuada punched him, and everything else, he added, "A lot. He threatened to cut my throat during that fight in your cottage."

Her eyebrows slid up toward her hairline. The government agent experienced a brief flash of triumph, which was promptly squashed when his twin replied, "Can you blame him? When you were in the same situation, you nearly killed someone once. With your bare hands, I might add. Three things really tick Nuada off, and you attacked him with all three of them when he was already upset. You used his mother, me, and rape against him."

"I didn't mention his mother," John protested, frowning. Dylan opened her mouth, then hesitated, wondering how she could explain without breaking Nuada's confidences. Her twin blinked and realization spread across his face. "Oh." A soft exhalation heavy with remorse. "I... oh. That's why he... oh. Dylan, I didn't know. I wouldn't have said what I said if I'd known, I swear."

She offered him a small smile. "I know. But you see now why he got so upset about what you said? He would never just stand by and let me get hurt that way. Not ever. He wouldn't let that happen to any woman, but there is no possible way he would ever let it happen to me of all people. Do you see?"

"Yeah." Then the federal agent's face hardened. "But even before that, he was a jerk."

"That's just...." She sighed, raking a hand through her tangled hair. "I know he was a bit of a jerk to you. Although you have to remember the first thing he ever saw you do was grab me and shake me like a maraca while yelling in my face. What would you do if you saw some guy you didn't know doing that to me?" Her mouth twitched when she saw John wince in response. "Exactly. And then there's the fact that he hates humans. A whole, whole lot. Big whole lot. Humans were responsible for a lot of the grief he's experienced."

"But he loves you, you said." He didn't have to point out to his quite observant sister that she was human.

She shrugged tiredly. "I'm different, apparently. He says the rest of the world should be like me. I've informed him that the world would be quite boring that way, and he sort of just humors me. Never mind that if everyone were like me, they'd all be female, and our species would die out. But I don't think that argument would sway him much." Dylan rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes for a moment. "I need to sleep," she muttered, "but I can't. Not yet. I'm so glad tomorrow is Saturday. Or today is. Whatever. Anyway, John, please... just, please, try to give him a chance. Please? I hate that you two don't like each other. It's like I'm being torn in half."

"Okay, okay, jeez," he mumbled, trying not to show how much her distress affected him. He hadn't realized it upset her this much, his hostility with the prissy fairy prince. Other than the time they'd tried to beat the tar out of each other. He would have to think about everything that Dylan had said. Think about it, and figure out what he wanted to do with it.

But not tonight. Not when his brains felt like they were melting out of his ears thanks to the jackhammers drilling away inside his fractured skull. And not after getting into a car wreck that had nearly killed him and had completely totaled the sweet Mustang his twin sister had bought for him when he'd graduated college.

Man, my Mustang. And that creep didn't even care. Not that he knows how completely priceless a 'Stang is, being a prancing little faerie boy and everything... wait. I'm supposed to be trying to give him a chance. Crud. That's going to be hard....

Dylan stayed with him for another hour. The rest of the conversation shifted to things like unicorns, which John had to admit was a pretty cool date idea, and potential assassination attempts (which John had to admit showcased exactly what his sister had been talking about regarding Nuada's concern for Dylan's personal safety). Eventually, however, he started to drift off. Dylan said that was normal since he'd been pieced back together with magic. Apparently he needed to sleep now.

She bent over and kissed his forehead before she left, and he was reminded of her doing that same thing ever since they were little kids. It eased some of the frustrated unease that had been simmering inside him since the car accident.

"I'll come see you when you wake up, okay?"

He nodded, already slipping into sleepiness. His twin brushed a hand across his forehead and walked out of the room as he fell asleep.

.

A servant led him to the room he was supposed to share with Dylan, and left him at the door. For a long moment he simply stared at the doorhandle. Did he want to go in? Did he want to walk into that room and see the pity in his mortal lady's eyes? Or worse, have to face her questions about what had happened at Midnight Fest?

Nuada had no idea what had occurred at the fae event. All he knew was that the Fates were cruel. Proof that Wink was dead, enough proof to send heartache and dread lancing through him, but not quite enough proof to cement the icy fear in the prince's chest. Not enough proof to confirm that his father had somehow become his enemy in earnest, yet too much for him to dismiss the ache of grief and confusion. He did not want to tell Dylan his suspicions. He did not want to see the cold anger and heartbreaking certainty in her eyes.

Humming slipped sweetly from beneath the door. Nuada leaned his forehead against the cool stone. Tried to force the tension from his body. Was she putting the children to bed? He'd missed the bedtime story again, then. For some reason the thought sent a pang through his chest.

"Nuada, I know you're out there," Dylan called from inside the room, and he jolted. "I can see your shadow from under the door. You're blocking the light from the torches in the hallway."

The door swung open without a creak to reveal his mortal lady seated at a vanity table, running a brush through her damp hair. She'd changed in his absence into modest sleeping attire, obviously borrowed from Kaye or another noblewoman - rich velvet pajama pants of dark hunter green and a thin tunic of palest green silk. For a split second Nuada wished fiercely that this was their room for true, that she was his wife, that the sumptuous bed was theirs to share so that he could climb into it beside her and hold her against his chest, trying to find some semblance of comfort.

Dylan took one look at his face and her welcoming smile slipped away. "You didn't find him." It was not a question, and for that he was thankful. She started to get up. He motioned her to sit down again. She obeyed, but didn't resume brushing her hair. "What do you need from me?"

From anyone else that question would have been an impatient demand, a not-so-subtle hint to go away. From Dylan, those words were an offer to ask for or take whatever he required from her. So he went to her and slid his arms about her shoulders. She leaned into him, sighed. She could feel the tension, tight as wires, in his body.

"Take what you need, Nuada."

"Just this," he murmured, pressing his face against her damp hair. She'd washed it. The fragrance of honeysuckle was a soothing balm. Dylan tucked an arm around his neck. It was a bit awkward, but the embrace eased the shards of pain in his chest. "For now, just this. Just you." She didn't ask him to tell her what had happened. Didn't ask anything. She simply held him as he held her and let him try to find the words. Eventually, he whispered, "I did not find him and yet...."

"You think he might have fallen in battle," Dylan said softly. A tremor went through Nuada at her words. His grip tightened. "I've never seen Wink fight, but silver cave trolls aren't exactly pushovers. And if he's with you, he must be an incredibly skilled warrior. There's still hope."

"You cannot know that-"

She turned to him and caught his face gently between her hands. "'Faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things,'" she quoted softly, forcing him to look her in the eye. "'Therefore, if ye have faith, ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true.' Have faith, my love. There is still a chance we might find him, or that he might come back to us."

"And if he does not?"

Tenderly, Dylan brushed back his hair and let her fingertips drift over his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. That simple act, something he had never done before, told her more plainly than anything else just how exhausted and worn down Nuada was. Her heart twisted hard in her chest.

"Then I will do all I can to ease your sorrow."

She released his face to take his hand, then started in surprise at the rough lines that scraped her fingertips. Dylan turned up his hands to study the cuts slashed across his palms. Nuada blinked, vaguely startled. He'd barely felt those wounds. All he remembered of receiving them was a dull pain as his grip on the Seal tightened and tightened to help him reign in the sudden furious desire to smash the cursed thing and everything it represented. The wounds were already knitting slowly back together. A few smears of amber blood marred his pale skin.

"Oh, Nuada," she murmured. Caressed the unmarked flesh of his palm. "Come on." And she led him to the bathroom. Forcing him with a gentle push to perch on the counter, she poured some of the still-steaming water from the pitcher one of the fey servants had brought her into the porcelain basin on the counter. She dipped in a dark gray cloth, wrung it out, and took Nuada's hand in hers.

Her touch was soft as moonglow on his skin as she carefully cleaned away the blood. The cuts were long but shallow, and didn't begin to bleed again when she wiped them clean. There was only silence in the moonstone-and-obsidian-tiled bathroom as Dylan tended to her prince. That silence held the weight of Nuada's grief and Dylan's fear for him. But when her task as a healer was complete, and she reached up to lay her palm against Nuada's cheek, he covered her slender hand with his own and turned his face into the softness of her palm. They stood that way for a long moment. His breath was warm on her skin.

Then he pressed his mouth to her palm, his lips like a brush of velvet. His fingers slid along the backs of hers, over the sensitive skin at the back of her hand. He lightly traced over her knuckles, feeling the delicate press of bone under flesh, to her wrist. Sparks tingled up her arm. He whispered against her palm, "Dylan... Dylan, I...."

"Inis dom - tell me," she whispered. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

My father wants to kill you, he thought before he could stop himself. No, that wasn't true, he did not know that, could not be certain. But someone had tried to murder Dylan and the children and Wink and all the signs pointed to King Balor. My father will try to take you from me.

The Elven warrior felt a minute trembling go through him. He had to reign in his emotions. Take his self-control and his courage in hand and cease acting like a weepy child in need of comfort. If his father had turned so fully against him, well, what of it? As a warrior, he should have considered the possibility of such a thing long ago and prepared for it. It was his own fault that he'd let weakness leave him ill-prepared for this.

Nuada could afford no weaknesses now. He ruthlessly reminded himself of this before releasing Dylan's hand and meeting her gaze. "Let it be," he said, pulling away from her. He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes. Ignored it as he forced himself to ignore the tightening in his chest. He could tell her his suspicions, tell her that she was right to suspect Balor. But he couldn't be certain his father... that the king had... and she was so sure, she would insist and he didn't want to hear Dylan accuse his father just then. He was too tired to debate with her.

"Nuada-" She began, reaching out for him again. Gods, she couldn't touch him, not now. He was so tired, so heartsick, he would break into a thousand pieces, she couldn't touch him.... "Nuada, you can tell me-"

"Let it be!" He snarled, and Dylan jerked her hand back, her eyes wide. "How often must I say it?" The feral-eyed warrior demanded. Sudden anger slipped down his spine and oozed through his veins like some sort of black poison. "Must you know my every thought? Am I allowed no secrets?"

She stared at him for a long moment, clearly stunned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you. You just looked... I just wanted to make you feel better."

"I do not need to be cossetted like some prized poodle-"

"Oh, stop it," Dylan snapped. "For crying out loud, just because someone tries to comfort you doesn't mean you're weak. You... you are so... you know what? Fine. Forget it. I'm tired, you're tired, we're both acting stupid, so I'm going to bed. We'll finish this in the morning. Good night."

And he watched her, slightly open-mouthed, as she turned on her heel and marched back into the bedroom. How dare she walk away from him? Simply because he cared for her, because they had been somewhat intimate, she decided it was acceptable to ignore the fact that he was the crown prince of a proud and noble fayre kingdom? And she'd called him stupid. He would not stand for this.

"I am not finished," he growled the minute he was back in the bedroom. Dylan turned to glare up at him, arms folded across her chest. "You think because I have some feelings for you that you may give me orders? Dictate to me? Insult me?"

Outrage flashed across her face. "Insult you? I did not insult you-"

"After everything I've done for you," he snarled, ignoring her protests, "including rescuing that gutless piece of vermin you call a brother-"

And the outrage morphed to steely anger. "Don't you dare talk about John that way-"

"After everything, every stars-cursed thing that has happened tonight-"

"Which you still haven't told me exactly what that is-"

"And as if I did not have enough to concern myself with, now you go and make everything worse by insulting my intelligence-"

"I did not insult you! Cripes, why are you so defensive all of a sudden? What is going on? Is it Wink? Is it something about your father?" She must have seen something in his face, because her eyes widened and she said softly, "It is. It's your father. You found something at Midnight Fest, didn't you? Something that implicates him. He's the one," she added, suddenly chilled. "He tried to kill us."

Through gritted teeth Nuada said coldly, "You have no idea what you're talking about."

The look she slapped him with was equal parts exasperation and exhaustion. "Don't give me that. I'm not an idiot. That's why you're so upset - you found something that told you he was the one responsible. Didn't you?"

"Let it be, Dylan."

"Nuada-" The mortal began, and the fraying leash on the Elven warrior's temper snapped.

"Be quiet!" He roared. Dylan jerked back from him, eyes wide and face pale. "Yes, if you must know, I found something! Does the make you happy, to know the man I have admired all my life is trying to kill those most dear to me? Does it vindicate you that the man who helped give me life may be our enemy? Does it please you to know you are probably right about my father? Is that what you wanted to hear, human?"

Something cold and jagged seemed to be lodged in her throat. For a long moment Dylan couldn't even speak. Was that really what he thought? That she would be happy about something that would bring him so much pain? "No," she whispered. "No, that's not what I wanted to hear. I just want the truth. I want to know what's going on so I can help you. That's all. I just want-"

"I do not give a damn what you want right now," he snapped, and she fell silent. Her face, Nuada saw, was suddenly white as milk. That sent guilt ripping through him, which only fueled his fury. "I don't want you here right now. Go away and rejoice in your victory. I do not need you crawling up my back over this. Go somewhere where I am spared having to look at you." Where he didn't have to see the hurt in her gaze. Didn't she know she could shred him with a look?

Now she staggered back from him. The look in her eyes sent him spiraling into memories of his worst nightmares. Mouth trembling, she whispered, "What?"

Nuada blinked, suddenly realizing just how his final words had sounded. And he remembered her words that night in the cottage. You don't want me. Look, I'm pretty enough for a human, but that's underneath the scars. And in the dream that night, when he'd seen more of her scars. You shouldn't have to see this when you look at me. What had he told her? I think you are beautiful. He had just inadvertently turned those words into a lie.

Go somewhere where I am spared having to look at you. Her hands trembled; she knew they did. It was the only reason she didn't reach up to touch her fingers to the thick slashing scar Nuada often caressed that marred her cheek. The only reason why she didn't cover her face with her hands to try and calm her suddenly ragged breathing. Spared having to look at you. Spared. Was it so bad, then? Dylan had thought Nuada actually liked her face. Her scars. Hadn't he called them beautiful? He'd only been being nice, apparently. She hadn't realized....

But why was he so angry with her? And what did he mean, rejoice in her victory? As if she would ever be happy about something that hurt him. He should have known that! Part of her wanted to give him a good punch in the arm, the way she'd done a couple times before. But mostly, she simply wanted to run away. Never have to look in his eyes again and know that although she couldn't see it in his expression, he was disgusted to be looking at her. Disgusted.

I don't want you here. Go somewhere where I am spared having to look at you. The words reverberated through her skull, crashing against her like crystal, to shatter into a thousand jagged pieces and cut her bloody.

To Nuada's horror, tears welled up and flowed down Dylan's cheeks. She didn't react to the hot spill of them. Didn't even seem to realize she was crying. She simply stared at him. The anguish in her eyes left him hollow. Her breath hitched in her throat. The air was suddenly saturated with pain. It choked back the words cramming into Nuada's throat. He hadn't meant... gods, he hadn't been thinking, he hadn't meant to say such a thing to her.

Dylan dropped her gaze to the floor. Her eyes scanned the cool stone as if desperately searching for something she'd lost. "I didn't... I thought... you... I wouldn't...." She swallowed hard. The tears still streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

"Okay," she murmured, and the Elf prince's heart dropped into his belly. "Okay," she said again. Her voice was hollow. He thought absently that she might have been in mild shock. "I'm sorry, I'll just... I... good night, Your Highness."

She turned and took a single step to the door. Nuada reached out and grasped her wrist. He couldn't let her leave him, not like this. But she recoiled from him.

"Don't touch me!" He couldn't touch her. She'd shatter. She'd break down sobbing because for some reason everything had turned around, everything was all wrong. Earlier that night they'd been kissing in a faerie glen, the stars shining down on them, and she'd known he loved her. Now he didn't even want to look at her anymore.

Dylan wanted to be angry about that. Wanted to get good and mad so she didn't feel like laying her head down and crying her eyes out like a wimp. But there was no anger. Just hurt. She could feel the jagged pieces of it trying to push against her skin and slice through her, but it was a distant sort of pain. Right now there was only the shock, the confusion. She was too tired for anything else. Too tired to guard against anything else. If Nuada touched her, Dylan knew the pain wouldn't stay distant, and she wouldn't be able to handle it along with everything else that had happened that day.

Don't touch me. It was as if she'd plunged an icicle into his chest. Cold, such numbing cold, slid through his veins. Worse than the cold that had taken him when he'd first begun to suspect that Wink might be dead. Worse than that vicious cold when he'd recognized the corpses of the Bethmooran royal guard. Because she'd never done that before. Not consciously, not while her mind was fully in the present. She'd never recoiled from him before. As if he were a monster. As if she hated him.

And she was still crying silently. He was almost certain she did not notice the tears, and that made it so much worse.

"I am sorry," he whispered. Pleaded. "Dylan, I am so sorry, I did not mean it how it sounded. Stay, please. Please. Allow me to beg your forgiveness. I'm sorry. Please, I beg you, do not cry. I cannot bear it when you cry," Nuada confessed. Could not bear it when she looked at him that way. "Please, mo cridh, my heart, I'm sorry."

Gathering his courage, Nuada reached out again. Took her hand. She stiffened, but did not pull away this time. He closed his eyes. Knelt before her. Even a few moons ago, if anyone had even hinted that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance would kneel before a mortal, the prince would have been infuriated. But now he clasped Dylan's trembling fingers and brought her hand to his lips.

"Forgive me, my lady, I beg of you."

"Why... why did you say that?" And underneath the question were the words, How could you say something so cruel... to me?

"I did not mean it as it sounded," he murmured. "When I snapped at you, you looked so hurt, and I could not stand to see you look at me that way. I just wanted to get away from the pain in your eyes. That was what I meant, my lady, I swear to you. I would never... I did not mean...." After a moment, he asked, "Do you know what I thought tonight, when I went to Midnight Fest and saw the decimation, the death? When I saw the Royal Seal that Wink once wore splashed with his blood, with no troll warrior to bear it?"

He looked up in time to see her shake her head, before he bowed his again.
"All I could think was how much I wanted to be with you. Away from war and politics and pain." He pressed his mouth to the back of her hand, tenderly. Barely suppressed a tremor when she gently laid her free hand upon his head. "You are the only one who knows me truly," Nuada whispered, "who did not think me soulless. I can only pray your opinion has not changed."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be an idiot," she sighed, and pulled him to his feet. "Of course it hasn't. But why did you get so angry with me? Why did you yell at me? I'm right, aren't I? It was your father, wasn't it? Or there's at least more evidence saying it is." Nuada inclined his head. "Then if I was right why did you shout at me?"

"Because he is my father!" Squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his fists, he struggled to strangle the grief in his chest. Whispered brokenly, "Because he is my father. Because I love him. When I was a boy, he was everything I wanted to become, and now he could very well be... what am I supposed to do, Dylan?"

With a sigh he dropped back against the wall. The stone was icy at his back.

"I am sorry, mo duinne, for speaking as I did. I'm so very sorry. I did not think. I'm just so stars-cursed tired. Everything is becoming so tangled and I have not the slightest idea what to do. I can scarcely think straight, I am so weary. The stench of death is still with me, the reek of blood from this night. I... I am not fit to be around just now and I desperately need a drink. I will... leave you to your rest." But he didn't move. Could not. Could not even open his eyes. He was suddenly so achingly weary.

Her touch against his cheek had him drawing in a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. The softness of her fingertips whispered over his skin. Caressed along the edge of his jaw and skimmed along his throat. Her hand finally came to rest right above his heart.

"I love you," Dylan said, voice as soft as a lullaby. Nuada drew a shuddering breath. "So much. And I forgive you. Always." He covered her hand with his own. Pressed it to his heart. She added, "It's all right, Nuada. Everything will be all right."

"You cannot know-"

"As long as we're together," Dylan interrupted gently, pressing close enough that he could feel the warmth of her even through the silk of their shirts, "as long as we face whatever comes together, everything will be all right. I have faith in us. We can handle this. Okay? We're just tired, and worried, so we're not acting rationally. It's okay, though." She laid her head against his chest. Her mouth skimmed the silk of his shirt with every word. "We'll be all right. I'm sorry for snapping at you."

Nuada sighed and pressed his cheek to her hair. "I am sorry for losing my temper. For hurting you that way. I am... shameful as it is, Dylan, I am afraid to go back to Findias without Wink to help protect you. To protect the children. I don't know what to do."

"Well, you're too tired to figure it out right now," she replied pragmatically. "For now, we should go to bed."

"Do you think Wink is alive, Dylan?" He asked, ignoring the suggestion. "There was so much blood... just like...." In that split second he saw pavement spattered with gray and his hands slick with crimson. Nuada swallowed hard. The latter was only the memory of a dream. It wasn't real. "He must have been badly wounded," the prince added softly. "I do not see how he could still live. That sixth sense of yours, is it telling you anything?"

She bit her lip and tried to push down the tiredness enough to figure out if she was feeling anything but exhaustion. Finally, she gestured helplessly. "It's not telling me he's dead, and that's something. All I feel is that we have to keep hoping. As for your father... we don't know that he's responsible, it's true. And you were right when you said that it would be a bad idea to focus on one potential enemy to the exclusion of everything else."

"I think the royal guard attacked Wink," Nuada whispered. Dylan stiffened in his arms. "I'm not sure - it may have been a civilian band of the fey that feed into the Butchers. Many of those who don't make it into the Guard become mercenaries. It may even simply be a ploy to make me believe my father is our enemy. Few there are who do not know of our many conflicts. But every instinct is telling me the Butcher Guards were the ones to attack Wink this night."

Dylan shifted to look up at him. He expected her to question him. To latch onto this confession and remind him that she'd suspected Balor from the first. Instead, there was such sadness in those rainswept blue eyes of hers. Such understanding and grief. She didn't want it to be Balor, Nuada realized. Didn't want it to be his father whom he loved so much. Didn't want anything to hurt him as this suspicion surely must, as the confirmation of it surely would. Her mouth trembled for a moment and she so very gently touched his face, and Nuada realized she felt his pain as keenly as if it were her own. He'd been a fool to think otherwise.

"Okay," Dylan murmured. "Okay. We'll figure it out. We'll keep on guard. We'll do whatever it takes." Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she rose up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth ever so lightly to his. His breath caught at the soft slide of her lips against his, the silk and warmth of her mouth. She tasted so sweet. It always surprised him, the sweetness of her. How she made him crave that sweetness. But now he tasted salt on Dylan's soft lips as well. A remnant of tears. The salt stung his mouth, but he deserved the pain. She pulled back to look into his eyes. "It will work out, my love. We'll protect each other, like we promised. It will be all right."

"How can you be so certain?" He asked brokenly. "Ní dhéanfaidh aon ní áirithe　níos mó. Níl a fhios agam cad atá le déanamh." Nothing is certain anymore. I do not know what to do.
 
"Some things are certain," Dylan murmured. She pressed her mouth to his again, gently. Kissed a little more of his sorrow away. There was no heat, no demand. Only a tender sort of giving. No one had ever kissed him like that before. "You. Me. Us. Some things are as certain as the sunrise. As for what to do... I trust your judgment. I always have, I always will. We will do whatever you think is best. I'll always follow you, Nuada. Always." She offered him a small smile. "Even when you're being a jerk."

He smiled - a real smile, for all it was exhausted. "You humble me. What would I ever do without you?"

Dylan slid an arm around him and laid her cheek to his chest. "You always ask that, and I always tell you the same thing - you'd be very, very boring. I know this is a painful truth, Your Highness, but you must come to accept it and move on."

Nuada hugged her, hard enough to make her squeak. Breathed her in. Held her to his heart. "Insolent chit. I am not boring. I am very interesting, I'll have you know."

"Mm-hm," she mumbled. "Right."

For a moment the Elven warrior merely allowed himself to find peace here, in Dylan's embrace. She was soft and warm and welcoming, and he could feel how much she cared for him. It had been so long since he'd had this. He stroked a hand along her hair and sighed. Things looked fairly bleak, and Wink... and his father... all the possibilities circled in his mind like sharks. But Dylan forgave him, loved him. Her presence made things seem far brighter.

Nuada kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes.